2013-11-28 - Bro!
It's late. It's later than any normal person with half a brain has any business being awake, much less out and about. So when the knock comes to the door of Clint Barton, aka Hawkeye, aka Hawkguy, it wouldn't be terrible surprising if he took it wrongly. Leather jacket in tatters at the bottoms of the sleeves, carrying a cold twelve-pack, Natasha Romanov stands outside his door. It's night and the hall isn't particularly lit up, but she keeps her sunglasses on. She looks impassive, and the beer seems like more of an afterthought. Clint has only back in town a couple of hours, what with having to divert to support that CHECKMATE op. The Avenger is lazing on his couch watching a bit of TV when there's a knock on the door. He gets up and scoops a Taser arrow out of a box and pads his way over bare foot. "Who is it?" he calls through the door, crouching down to unzip the bag he carries his bow in, just in case this is more than a one arrow job. "Me." The voice is unmistakably Natasha's. There's a bit of fatigue in it, but nothing else notable. Clint's sigh is audible through the door, then silence. It lingers a moment so that the only sounds there are is the sound of the street sweeper truck out front and the hum of the neon bulbs in the stairwell. Then a click, of the deadbolt being slid open and the creak of the hinges as the door is opened and Clint is standing there leaning on the door frame. He notes the beer and raises an eyebrow asking tiredly "Really? Beer? Who are you using me to con now, AIM?" "Call it a peace offering," Natasha says tiredly. "Three things: one... America's in the medbay at the Academy. She got hit with the Silencer... and.." she pauses. "It looks bad. I don't think it was meant ot work with... whatever she is. Not human. Two, Wisdom's sighed up with SHIELD. We'll see how he works out. And three... there's a van out front survieling the building, were you aware?" Clint looks ready to make some smart ass remark about the peace offering before she drops the bomb about America. He steps out of the doorway to let her in, and starts looking for his jacket, shoes and keys. "What happened?" he asks her, there's no accusation there, just a request for information. He grabs a shoe and sort of hops across the place on one foot putting it on. When he gets to the window he puts down his foot. "Must have missed them on my way in, I took the back. You see who was inside? They in tracksuits?" He takes a look out the window trying to see for himself while he ties his laces, foot propped up on the radiator. Natasha sighs, stepping into the apartment. "Pym is taking care of her. I took her there myself-- she's in the best hands she can be in." She rubs at her damaged sleeves ruefully. "There's nothing we can do for her except wait for the people with the medical knowledge to handle it. She's sleeping it off-- looked like she didn't agree with it-- vomiting, wooziness." She tilts her head slightly. "Yeah, tracksuits... how did you know? They looked pretty stupid." Clint finds his other shoe and tugs it on. "Hm," Clint says about America. Seeing as he is still putting on his shoes he has his own ideas about what to do about the situation. "I know those guys," Clint says. "They used to own this building. They're a bit pissed off about it." There was also the girl but, seriously, not going there right now. "So, how recovered are you?" he asks as he finds his jacket. "If you want to spend the night with Tony, be my guest," Natasha states coolly, assuming that Clint's planning on rushing down to the labs. "When I left he was in there fretting about how every woman he gets involved with ends up dead or kidnapped or brainwashed or otherwise incapacitated." She rolls her eyes. "Because, as we know, the world revolves around Tony Stark's libido." She moves to the window at Clint's explanation of the tracksuits. She looks out, towards the van. "Seems like a lot of trouble for a building. What, did they bury pirate treasure in the basement?" "I may have hit them a little," Clint admits sheepishly as he finishes tugging on his jacket and moves to his bow bag. "Yeah, well that's Tony for you," he says about that situation. "Wait, involved with? Involved with how? Also, you didn't answer my question Nat." "Hell if I know," Natasha replies. "When I called him to let him know I was bringing her in, he spent the conversation accusing me of trying to assassinate her-- until I hung up on him and brought her in anyway. Then he went off about all of that when I got there. I try not to look too deeply into things like that." She lifts a brow. "And you, hitting someone? Be still my heart, I might faint," she says sarcastically. "I assume they deserved it, since you don't go around punching people for no reason, generally." She sighs. "I'm fine. Considering America, having a snit, dragged me to some world with psychotic murderous bondage Kree and we had to fight our way out--" she lifts her arms, showing where she shot out the cuffs of her sleeves, "--and I'm intact... I think I'm fine, even if Tony's computer says I'm off active duty for a few days." Clint nods at Nat's answer, a slightly doubtful expression taking over his features as he slips on his quiver. "Egh, probably nothing," he says before he nods. "And yeah, they drew on me first plus they kicked a dog," he says as if that justifies everything. "Ah, dimension hopping. Remind me to tell you about the High Imperial Magistrate," Clint says with a nod before he ducks down to get his bow and snap it into place. "Intact should do it, these guys are Russians, but just cheap thugs, no real training, and they're not vampires. "I figure we head out the back, I take the alley to the right, you take the left and I'll pop a tear gas arrow into their van flush em out and we knock them down and tell them to move on. Sound like a plan?" "Lovely," Natasha responds doubtfully. "Why would, if they are here for you, they only send cheap thugs? Seems like a waste to me." She shrugs. "But I am game." She tugs off her jacket, tossing it on the back of his couch, so her wristguns are completely unencumbered. "Shall we?" "They aren't that bright really," Clint says before he nods "Let's go," he says falling into the familiar rhythms of their partnership. He leads the way downstairs and once out the back door by fenced off parking area he says. "I'll kick us off like I said, then close in and we'll deal with them when they're staggering out of the van." Natasha nods, then turns, moving quickly around behind the building to the alley. She cuts down the left alleyway in silence, waiting in the shadows at the end and watching the van, ready for Clint to start the party. Clint moves quietly into position. He can see two people at least in the van. Either way, he calmly aims, draws and fires, the arrow shattering the window of the van before exploding with green gas inside. Clint is already rushing the driver as he staggers out of the van, coughing, and holding an uzi. "Hey bro," Clint shouts as he hits him hard across the face with the bow. The back of the van opens, and three men stagger out, coughing and wheezing. It really isn't fair what happens to them. Natasha appears like a red-headed ghost from the alley, bounding quickly and eating up the short space between her hiding spot and the tracksuits. Not even bothering with her stings, she takes a running leap and hits the closest one hard, feet first, and practically bounces off of him into the second, swinging her metal-covered wrist in a lazy backhand. Clint's guy goes down. The guy from the passenger seat staggers around the front of the car his own uzi pointed at Clint "I'm going to keel you bro!" he shouts but Clint is already moving, his hand whips back and a broadhead arrow sprouts in the guy's hand sending the uzi clattering to the ground. Smiling, Clint runs forward and jump kicks the man in the face. In the back the first two guys go down, the hard on their asses looking at each other. The last guy swings a bat at Nat shouting "Crazy bitch! This is not your fight!" here is a crack as the bat connects with Natasha-- on her wrist, here she had slammed her arm up to catch it purposefully. "" she replies casually in Russian. He looks confused-- the hit did nothing, and she speaks Russian. It takes him a moment to work that through, but it's a moment too long. She reaches upand grabs his wrist on the hand holding the bat, squeezing and twisting and forcing him down to his knees. "Got it under control?" Clint shouts from the front of the van as he gathers up the uzis and pops the clips out to dump them down the storm drain. He pops out the chambered rounds as well and tosses the guns back into the car as he heads around back. The bat clatters woodenly to the ground and the guy who swung it isn't that far behind it, being forced to his knees at the back of the van. he asks as the two other track suit goons exchange looks as if to ask each other, should we help. Their answer comes in the form of a shadow falling over them, Clint Barton, bow in hand. "Sit your asses down," he says. "Of course," Natasha responds to Clint's question, applying more pressure to the pressure point in the goon's wrist. "" she tuts at him. When Clint appears, she smiles ferally. ""< I /would/ listen to him. It is late, and he gets cranky.>" Three sets of eyes turn towards Clint when Natasha is done with her suggestion. "I have no idea what she just said to you guys, but since you all just wet your Addidas I think I get the gist, so, here's my offer, pick up your buddies, pile in your van and /go/. Or we bring this little show to your neighbourhood." "You try that bro, see how long you liv-" twang, thak, and the man's words are cut off by a scream as he cradles his knee. Clint draws a new arrow, a broadhead, not like the blunt arrow he'd just used. "As I was saying, you get out of here, we don't come into your neighbourhood and mess up your world, get me bros?" he asks as he stretches the bowstring a little, letting it creak ominously. "We go, we go," the one guy says and gets to his feet dragging knee-cap into the van. The guy Nat has a hold of looks to her. "You let me go?" he asks her. Natasha shrugs, twisting one last bit before releasing his arm. The man yelps and when he's let go he stands and shakes out his hand glaring at Natasha, but moving away at the same time. He and the other one help pull the driver and passenger into the van, then slam the doors behind them. As the van rumbles to a start one of them leans out the window. "This is not over, bro, not even-" THUNK Clint fires his arrow into the door of the van and the driver peels out leaving Nat and Clint behind. Clint sighs and stretches watching the van's lights vanish down the road. "Well, that was fun," he says and clicks his bow closed. "Guess I should go grab the car and head down to the Academy," he says and turns towards Nat, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. "Thanks though Nat, for letting me know about America and backing me up." Natasha shakes her head. "Dont let those beers get warm," she says finally. "They go bad." As to opinions on anything else? She doesn't voice them. “No such thing as a bad beer Nat,” Clint says heading towards the building again. “Though we’ll put them away before we roll out, give you a lift home?’ he asks. "You have never had skunked porter, then," Natasha notes. "This is why vodka is better-- does not have to worry about staying chilled." She falls in step beside him towards the building. "And da, that would be nice. Sleep would be good." Clint gets to the door. "Heard about that sleep thing you're talking about, not sure it's real," he says. "Anyhow, I'll pack a few things, get the beer away, and while I do you can tell me about Pete joining SHIELD. Didn't see that coming," he says as he opens the door for Natasha.